


Painting for 200

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:12:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was in honour of getting my 200th follower on Tumblr - I let #200 suggest a fic, and the person wanted something domestic, something like them painting or something. Well. You're not going to get Mycroft to paint. Greg, though...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting for 200

He could smell it before he was in reach of the front door. Something was wrong. But all of the locks were still in place, so he frowned, twisting them carefully, entering his passcode, opening the door gently before calling out, “Gregory?”

“You’re back early!” 

“Ahh.” Mycroft sighed under his breath, turning his attention back to the security system. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Be a while till dinner’s ready, though.” There was a rattling thump, and he turned back in time to see Greg coming past the corner of the kitchen, smiling, wiping his hands on a cloth. He had a baseball cap on his head, a much-stained sweatshirt, and jeans. All of which had paint stains on them.

“Good God. What have you done?” Mycroft asked drily, dropping his umbrella into the stand. 

“I hated your kitchen.”

Mycroft paused, his head tipped to the side. “So you burned it down?” he prompted.

“Nah. I’m reorganising it, though.”

“By painting all of the dishes green?”

“The walls,” Greg told him, leaning closer to kiss him lightly. “Usually people do up the kitchen first, you know.”

“Do they?” 

“Well, I do,” Greg shrugged, then waved him on. “Come on, I’m nearly done.”

“You haven’t... destroyed anything, have you?” Mycroft asked carefully, following him at a safe distance.

“I did a bit. I dunno who thought it was clever to put the spice rack so close to the stove, but it’s just minor stuff, really.”

Mycroft surveyed the scene. It did look much better with the walls painted a dark forest green, picking up the tiles over the stove where the offending spice rack had been removed. All of the appliances had been removed from the surfaces, and there were drop cloths covering the table. Greg climbed back up the ladder, catching up the wad of masking tape he’d been removing from the edge of the ceiling, leaving a sharp, clean line along the top of the wall. 

“I’m impressed.”

“Good.” Greg grinned down at him. “And I really do have dinner in the oven. I wasn’t just saying that.”

“My goodness, you really have gone domestic.”

“Oi. Don’t get like that. I’ve been here all day, and I get hungry too, you know.”

“I’m just curious - why is it that the first time you have complete access to my flat, and knew that I would be gone for a minimum number of hours, you come here and do...this?”

“Do you object?” Greg asked, looking down at him, his hands running on automatic now as he reeled in the last line of tape.

“No, I think it’s...fine.” Mycroft looked around at the space. “It looks splendid. But...why?”

“I like to cook,” Greg said, stepping down off the ladder and smashing the tape in his hands, making a dense ball of it. “I thought, well, I wasn’t going to change any of the rest of this place. It feels really... _done_ , you know? But the kitchen was just... cold. Dead. And you don’t use it much.”

“True,” Mycroft admitted.

“Just kind of wanted to leave my mark. Remember when you wanted to see if I could make you sleep better, here? That time you showed up in the middle of the night?”

“I remember,” Mycroft said firmly, trying not to smile.

“Yeah.” Greg heard the tone, and his dark eyes drifted down to Mycroft’s lips pointedly for a second. “And you put those sheets on my bed.”

“Marking your territory?”

Greg tossed the ball of tape aside, and moved closer to Mycroft. “Something like that.”

“No, Greg.” Mycroft held out a finger. “Please. Change, first.”

“Don’t like me when I’m all grubby?” he asked, grinning.

“Some of the paint on you is not quite dry.”

He looked down at himself. “Oh. Well.” He lifted the hat off his head, looking it over while his free hand scrubbed into his hair, ruffling it until half of it was standing on end. “Okay.” He tossed the hat aside, and suddenly peeled off his sweatshirt as well. He ignored the surprised look on Mycroft’s face, flattening the sweatshirt and examining it in turn. “Oh, right. Yeah, that’s still kind of wet,” he said, before folding it in on itself and dropping it on top of the hat. “Any more?” He twisted, trying to see all of himself.

“How long until the lamb is ready? Half an hour?”

Greg stared up at him, startled. “I didn’t... hang on, you can smell that over the paint?”

“Of course.” He blinked, and shook his head. “You had intended to open the windows and air the kitchen a bit before serving the food, surely?”

“Well, yes, but -”

Mycroft shook his head. “Just come and wash up. The food will be fine if you leave it a little long. Nothing will burn. Shoes?”

“Yeah, just...” Greg caught his balance on Mycroft’s hand, kicking his paint-stained shoes off before letting himself be turned around and guided down the hall to the bedroom. “You’re okay with it, then?”

“You’ll find out in a month, when I don’t have it all redone, won’t you? Why do you ask these things?”

“Because I’m a human being, remember?”

“Only in a biological sense. I’ll be with you before the water’s warm.” He nudged Greg in the direction of the master bath. “Just let me take off my suit.”


End file.
